This week I volunteered in 'la casa de los ancianos' (an old folks home). Although I thought it would be an interesting place to see in a third world country, I was pretty sure it wasn´t going to be a very happy experience. I remember walking through the halls of the nursing home when my grandpa was there and my eyes were usually filled with tears before I made it past only a few rooms. This experience in Ocotal was no different.
We started the morning with a tour of the facilities. We saw the rooms where the residents live. It seems as if there are generally three residents to a room, although we saw rooms with up to six beds. Some of the rooms don´t have any windows. I have complained to other students about the slanty matress in my bedroom here, but my matress was nothing compared to the lumpy, super-thin matresses the residents sleep on.
Unlike nursing homes in the United States where it seems common to see residents attached to some sort of machinery helping to keep them alive, in this nursing home in Nicaragua, I´m pretty sure if you can´t function on your own, you will probably die. I suppose they might try to send you off in an ambulance before that happens, but everyone in this nursing home, no matter their condition, was able to walk themselves (with support from a staff member, cane or walker) to and from the recreation center where they spend their days.
Don´t let the name 'recreation center' fool you. I did not see any recreation going on. Although the residents indicated that occasionally they have visitors who come and play the guitar or paint with them. Generally, however, the visitors are international volunteers who come and talk with the residents. The levels of Spanish of the volunteers varied, some were native speakers as Spain has some sort of internship program that sends nurses out for a month or so at a time, most, however, seemed to fall into the intermediate-ish level like myself.
Some of the residents (those who are able) make intense efforts to fill the empty days with any activity possible. Generally this wasn't much. One grey haired and bearded gentleman always sporting a cowboy hat and Malcolm X glasses (apparently the womanizer of the group), wound and ripped strips of gauze all day long. My understanding is that he was making pillows from these strips. A few residents had personal radios, reminiscent of what they must have looked like in the 1960's, but batteries were in short supply, so I'm not sure how frequently these were actually used. The majority of residents, however, spent most of the day sitting in chairs, alternating between sleeping and staring into space.
Our program intended us to arrive at 8 am and leave at noon in time for lunch and afternoon Spanish class. The other volunteers and I (most did not choose the old person home to volunteer) struggled with our lack of desire to be there the entire time or to be there at all. While I supposed this comes off selfish, it was partially due to how difficult it was to fill four hours conversing in a language of which you don't have a command. Some of the the residents spoke very articulately and well, while others, having no teeth and not much education, understood us about as much as we understood them, so pretty much not at all.
Even with our reluctance to be there, we could not help but see the effects of our presence on the residents. Who has a heart so cold that could not be brought to tears by the toothless woman dressed in our Goodwill-rejects whose face lit up when you called out, 'Buenos dias, Maria!' Their immediate instinct when we arrived and made our rounds was to reach out and grab our hands. Touch, or, perhaps more specifically, love was in short supply there. Not that I thought the staff did a bad job, I have seen worse in terms of caring in the USA, but there cannot be a replacement here for what they had with their families.
Each resident had a story about how they ended up in la casa de los ancianos. Each story was sad, of course. And it made me quite aware of how alone the last part of life may be. Some residents have families (still alive), some don't. Some were from Ocotal, but most were from other parts of Nicaragua. One story was more difficult to hear than the rest, I suppose because her story didn't sound much different than one we might tell.
I will try to be brief with the story...
Her name was Rosa and we heard of her immediately as 'the one who spoke English.' English, she spoke well, but we generally spoke in Spanish as she had been a former Spanish teacher. Rosa had taught Spanish to foreigners in both Panama and Costa Rica. She had a husband and a son, both of whom had died years ago. Rosa had lived with family members up until a few years ago when as a result of her cataracts, which had made her blind, she caused a fire in the kitchen as she attempted to cook for herself while home alone. She was then sent to la casa de los ancianos in Ocotal which is far from where her family lives. I don't believe Rosa has had any visitors (family members) since she arrived. Each day she makes her way down to the same table bringing with her all her valuables (which can be carried in two small bags). She does some sort of sewing, I don't remember exactly what, and she waits for visitors. So do they all.
As we left each visit, the residents would grab our hands once again and ask when we were coming back. As I am now finally finishing this post many months after it actually happened, it has been a long time since I told them I'm not coming back.
Before I left I passed out toothbrushes, shampoo, soap, anything that I thought would make their life a little bit more pleasant. But perhaps it was also out of guilt that I too would forget them, or maybe not that, but that I should or could do more. You cannot forget. How could you?
Some of the residents (those who are able) make intense efforts to fill the empty days with any activity possible. Generally this wasn't much. One grey haired and bearded gentleman always sporting a cowboy hat and Malcolm X glasses (apparently the womanizer of the group), wound and ripped strips of gauze all day long. My understanding is that he was making pillows from these strips. A few residents had personal radios, reminiscent of what they must have looked like in the 1960's, but batteries were in short supply, so I'm not sure how frequently these were actually used. The majority of residents, however, spent most of the day sitting in chairs, alternating between sleeping and staring into space.
Our program intended us to arrive at 8 am and leave at noon in time for lunch and afternoon Spanish class. The other volunteers and I (most did not choose the old person home to volunteer) struggled with our lack of desire to be there the entire time or to be there at all. While I supposed this comes off selfish, it was partially due to how difficult it was to fill four hours conversing in a language of which you don't have a command. Some of the the residents spoke very articulately and well, while others, having no teeth and not much education, understood us about as much as we understood them, so pretty much not at all.
Even with our reluctance to be there, we could not help but see the effects of our presence on the residents. Who has a heart so cold that could not be brought to tears by the toothless woman dressed in our Goodwill-rejects whose face lit up when you called out, 'Buenos dias, Maria!' Their immediate instinct when we arrived and made our rounds was to reach out and grab our hands. Touch, or, perhaps more specifically, love was in short supply there. Not that I thought the staff did a bad job, I have seen worse in terms of caring in the USA, but there cannot be a replacement here for what they had with their families.
Each resident had a story about how they ended up in la casa de los ancianos. Each story was sad, of course. And it made me quite aware of how alone the last part of life may be. Some residents have families (still alive), some don't. Some were from Ocotal, but most were from other parts of Nicaragua. One story was more difficult to hear than the rest, I suppose because her story didn't sound much different than one we might tell.
I will try to be brief with the story...
Her name was Rosa and we heard of her immediately as 'the one who spoke English.' English, she spoke well, but we generally spoke in Spanish as she had been a former Spanish teacher. Rosa had taught Spanish to foreigners in both Panama and Costa Rica. She had a husband and a son, both of whom had died years ago. Rosa had lived with family members up until a few years ago when as a result of her cataracts, which had made her blind, she caused a fire in the kitchen as she attempted to cook for herself while home alone. She was then sent to la casa de los ancianos in Ocotal which is far from where her family lives. I don't believe Rosa has had any visitors (family members) since she arrived. Each day she makes her way down to the same table bringing with her all her valuables (which can be carried in two small bags). She does some sort of sewing, I don't remember exactly what, and she waits for visitors. So do they all.
As we left each visit, the residents would grab our hands once again and ask when we were coming back. As I am now finally finishing this post many months after it actually happened, it has been a long time since I told them I'm not coming back.
Before I left I passed out toothbrushes, shampoo, soap, anything that I thought would make their life a little bit more pleasant. But perhaps it was also out of guilt that I too would forget them, or maybe not that, but that I should or could do more. You cannot forget. How could you?
